The Impossible Truth
by jojospn
Summary: 221B Baker Street: it is where John Watson has lived, loved. He has experienced great joy and intense sorrow. It is also where he has learned the impossible truth about his best friend. Eventual johnlock. Rated M


**A/N: Hi, I'm jojospn and this is my first ever attempt at a** _ **Sherlock**_ **fic. So right off the bat I apologize if this is in any way OOC. I only recently watched this show, binge watched the entire thing in a few weeks, and am currently in withdrawals. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this first attempt at this series. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Eventual Johnlock. Note, I am not British so please excuse if I miss any British terms for certain words. I** _ **am**_ **Canadian, so I'm pretty confident in certain ones, but if I goofed up anywhere, my apologies!**

 **The Impossible Truth**

When Dr. John Watson first meets his potential flatmate, his initial reaction is _what the fuck am I doing?_

Sherlock Holmes is brilliant, according to Mike. Had solved cases for the New Scotland Yard which had baffled even the most skilled detective on the force. He is also a madman, a self proclaimed high functioning sociopath. He has zero decency, no tact, and a serious lack in the social skills department. John should have immediately been repulsed at the sight of the man practically attacking one of the corpses with what could have been almost glee. He had shown every red flag possible, and yet the former soldier is intrigued. There is something about Sherlock Holmes that grabs your attention, draws you in and refuses to let go. And then he rattles off _every personal detail_ about his past, from his time as an army doctor in Afghanistan to the origins of his mobile phone, with a simple scan of his person. While texting. John is astounded, and despite the fact that he knows damn well that this would likely be a mistake of massive proportions, agrees to be this strange man's flatmate; is doing so despite the fact that said stranger is currently commanding instructions for their rendez-vous, practically ordering him to meet up the next evening to check out potential flats. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," he tells him with a hint of a smug smile, "and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

And that is it. He returns to his meagre excuse of a flat, does a quick Google search on the detective, toys with the decision to either take a leap of faith or simply remain alone in his flat, with only his weekly visits to his psychiatrist as company. He heads to bed, and somehow sleeps soundly for the first time in months. The next morning, there are few misgivings when he stands before the heavy green doors of 221B Baker street, his new socially awkward flatmate at his heels. He isn't deterred when he walks into his new home, and gapes the clutter of newspaper clippings, test tubes and what seems to be an entire library of texts. "Friend of mine," Holmes announces complacently when John acknowledges the skull on the fireplace mantle. He's only mildly surprised when kindly landlady Mrs. Hudson queries as to whether he and Mr. Holmes (not Sherlock, not quite yet) would require shared or separate rooms. _This is insane,_ John tells himself as he scans the scene before him. _I don't even know this man, his landlady thinks we're a_ couple, _and yet I'm perfectly fine with moving in._

He's overwhelmed, confused, even a trifle terrified... and he hasn't felt this alive since his discharge.

And so, when his strange new flatmate offers o bring him along on his latest investigation as a medical consultant, John Watson answers him with an enthusiastic "god, yes!" He watches in fascination as the consulting detective identifies a serial killer based on little more than a worn wedding band, a missing briefcase, and a partially scratched name on the hardwood floor. Can feel the adrenaline pumping as he and his new partner race through the streets of London, subconsciously forgetting his cane in a local diner; and is far from ashamed when the detective's theory that his limp was psychosomatic is proven correct. Within less than fourty-eight hours, John has saved his new flatmate's life. There is no hesitation when he pulls the trigger, his grip steady. No doubt it is instinct: he would do the same for anyone under similar circumstances. And yet, he cannot deny the fear when he sees him standing before the killer, poised to swallow the potentially lethal capsule. The man he is now almost casually referring to as Sherlock.

The man who would by year`s end become his best friend and saviour.

XXX

Throughout the past year, 221B had slowly become home. Sherlock`s various tomes, chemicals, newspaper clippings and various clutter had no longer become a nuisance, but comfortable, welcome. It no longer disturbed him to hear the various pops from the kitchen, or to hear violin concertos at all hours of the night. Even that damn skull, ever present in its place on the mantlepiece, were signs of comfort, warmth, comraderie. Days would be spent pouring over cases, intermitant with breaks to update his blog or to somehow convince Sherlock to eat something for lunch or to sit back with a cup of tea.

Now, the familar space has lost its welcome, a cancer rather than a safe haven. John`s eyes dance from one corner of the space to the other, and his knees nearly buckle beneath him.

Sherlock is dead. Had jumped to his death mere hours earlier, and before his very eyes. He can feel his breathing hitch as images of his best friend's suicide bombard his senses.

" _This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

 _Leave a note when,_ he had asked, even though he knew the answer. Deep down, John Watson had known what the bastard was about to do. No amount of denial, no tearful pleas at his friend's final goodbye, could change the fact that Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was about to kill himself. He could only watch in horror as he plummeted to his death. He could clearly remember how silent it had seemed, his senses almost heightened; how time seemed to have almost stopped during his fall; the acrid taste of bile from beneath his throat as he struggled to keep from vomitting at the sight of his friend's mangled body...

John squeezes his eyes shut, willing the horrifying images to vanish. His legs begin to buckle beneath him and the doctor grasps at the door frame to keep from colapsing. For several minutes he remains there, his body shaking with grief, before at last he gives in and finds himself sliding to the floor, sobbing. It is the first time John has allowed himself to grieve his loss since it had happened: he'd remained almost in a daze when Sherlock's body had been wheeled away, had remained almost stoic when he had given his statement to an equally upset Lestrade. Even when Mrs. Hudson had sobbed bitterly into her hankey later that evening, John had been dry eyed, muttering comforting reassurances while desperately trying to swallow the lump that was building in his throat. His only relief had been when he had broken the news to Sherlock's brother. Mycroft Holmes had been just as quiet, the subtle tremor of his hands being the only indication that he, too, grieved. Of course, there would be no obvious display of emotion from a Holmes, and while John had been slightly disturbed that Mycroft seemed to be a little _too_ calm about the affair, it had also been rather comforting to know that he was not the only one repressing his emotions.

At least, until now. This very moment, at last alone in the flat that, not twelve hours ago, he had shared with his best friend, his family. No one to judge, to offer useless condolences, to assure him that _it will all be ok. Time heals everything, you'll see._ A sentiment John had already concluded to be horribly clichéd under the best of times, let alone following the loss of someone you truly cared about, someone you _loved._ And so, in the privacy of 221B, John Watson cries, messy, uncontrollable sobs. He remains there until he feels the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. For one irrational moment, he thinks it's Sherlock, almost calls his name, before Mrs. Hudson's voice, soft and kindly, interrupts his hiccuping.

"I know, dear," she says softly, helping the doctor to his feet. John accepts the hand, his face flushed not only with tears, but embarrassment. "I'm sorry." he tells her, wiping his eyes. "I'm a bit of a mess right now, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense. He was your friend, John Watson. I'd deck you if you didn't cry."

John smiles faintly, nodding. "I hope you don't mind, but I don't think I can live here now. I just can't, now that he's..." His voice catches, and John draws an unsteady breath. Mrs. Hudson nods in understanding, though her eyes are beginning to water again. "I wish you wouldn't. It will be so lonely without any of my boys, But I understand. Take all the time you need," she adds, noticing the look of dread on his face. John nods again. It's as if it is the only response he can manage now, and he can feel a new onslaught of fresh tears welling; but he holds them back, still unwilling to lose his composure before his landlady. As much as he cares for Mrs. Hudson, and appreciates knowing that she is there if ever he needs her, John wishes at the moment to be left alone. Of course, she senses this, repeats a soft "I'm here if you need me," and retreats to her own flat. Finally alone, John once more stares at the space before him, so empty despite the clutter, so unbelievably _Sherlock._ He wants to just leave now, never look back, but knows that if he does, he will never have the courage to come back. With a sigh, John steels himself and walks inside.

XXX

He can't believe it. It isn't possible.

Once more, John Watson finds himself at 221B, torn between white hot fury and overwhelming joy. Before him stands none other than Sherlock Holmes, returned from the dead, and seemingly nonplussed by the fact that he had left his best friend to grieve. For _two fucking years_ John had made the weekly pilgramage to his grave, pouring his heart and soul to the man he'd lost. "Just one more miracle," he had begged his friend. The friend who had, on his own admission, witnessed his breakdown. John can feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, and immediately wipes them away rather agresssively with the back of his hand. He doesn't want to cry now. He's so goddamned sick of crying.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock repeats. He's sitting in his favourite chair, leaned back, eyes closed. Though there does seem to be a hint of sincerity in the detective's usual baritone, John is well aware that his socially inept friend doesn't seem to quite grasp the gravity of the situation. He lets out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"You don't get it, Sherlock. You can't just waltz back here and expect everything to be like it was."

"Why not?" Typical Sherlock. So brilliant and yet also so completely clueless.

"Because I..."

 _Because I love you, you git._

John pauses, surprised by the thought, by just how naturally it had come about. Immediately he pushes it back to the recesses of his mind, chalks it up to the whirlwind of emotions he is feeling at the moment. Yesterday his best friend was dead. Now he's there, living and breathing before his very eyes, and trying to justify being a total dick. He realizes that Sherlock is standing there, staring at him, no doubt using those amazing powers of deduction to analzye his very thoughts. Closing his eyes, John draws a deep breath, trying to steady his rapidly fraying nerves.

"Because you just _can't._ "

"And yet I have done just that."

An unamused smile traces John's lips and he shakes his head in disbelief. "You're unbelievable. You know that, right? Thinking it's perfectly acceptable to make your _best friend_ believe you were dead."

"I did what I had to, John."

But John has had enough. He can already feel the anger ebb; instead there is only exhaustion. Dejected, John closes his eyes, unwilling to even make eye contact with Sherlock. "Please, just... no more excuses. I want an honest answer from you; why didn't you tell me? Why not just one phone call? _Anything_ to tell me that you were alive?" John's voice wavers despite himself, and he blinks back a few stray tears. There is no answer from across the room, and John shakes his head. "Of course not. Why do I even bother?" He can sense the detective's confusion, can almost hear him make the calculations in his head, trying to deduce why his friend is so bloody angry. For a moment, John feels a pang of sympathy for the man; his social skills have always been lacking. God knows it could not have been easy growing up in the shadow of Mycroft Holmes. But the sympathy vanishes immediately when Sherlock tries for the umpteenth time to explain the mechanics of his plan. With Sherlock watching, John grabs the keys to his new flat from the end table and storms off.

 _I like him._

"Not now, Mary." he mutters under his breath as he steps out on Baker Street. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, John walks brisky among the crowd, head low, eyes blazing. He doesn't need his fiancee's two cents on the matter right now. Even if said opinion is in reality his own conscience getting the better of him. _He doesn't need forgiveness right now. He needs to fucking_ reliaze _that you can't just fake your death and waltz back in as if nothing happened..._ He can already feel the elevated thump of his heart rate; he needs to calm down. He closes his eyes, oblivious to the annoyed pedestrians rudly pushing and shoving against him as they pass.

 _There's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock..._

No. He isn't allowing himself to to go back. He has a _right_ to be angry, goddamn it! But despite his best efforts, John can clearly see himself standing before his friend's grave; can hear the tremors in his voice as he speaks to Sherlock for what he had honestly believed to be the last time. "I was so alone," he had told him, fingers gently tracing along the smooth granite, "and I owe you so much."

 _...don't. Be. Dead._

He's gotten his wish, hasn't he? The very man he'd prayed would return is now standing in his flat, no doubt pontificating over something, or playing etudes on his violin, or (more likely) retreating to the safety of his Mind Palace, trying to come up with some scientific or mathematical solution to explain his anger. The man who is so brilliant in so many ways and yet so unbelievably obtuse in others...

He can feel the anger begin to subside, the controlled breathing calming his freyed nerves. Eventually, the beats begin to steady, and John sets off again. He still feels betrayed, and is still very much pissed off at Sherlock Holmes, but maybe, just maybe, he could possibly forgive him.

XXX

 _Save John Watson._

It's the last place he wants to be right now, standing once again in 221B. Staring at the image of his late wife, addressing his former best friend. The man who'd killed her. He feels the tightness in his throat, the sting of tears in his eyes, and he can't breathe. Sitting in his old plaid armchair, gripping at the upholstery for dear life, John watches as Mary, his beautiful Mary, pours her heart to Sherlock, as calmly and clearly as if she were discussing a case. And yet she is begging him to save her husband. _Oh Mary, I can't be saved. Not without you._

" _Don't think anyone else can save him,_ " Mary's voice continues and John snaps back into focus. He doesn't want to hear what she has to say, wishes to God that he doesn't have to, but he owes her this much. The woman who had saved him those horrible years he had believed Sherlock to be dead, who had given him the precious gift of fatherhood after Rosie's birth, the woman he had secretly cheated on via text mere hours before her death... John forces himself to push that last image aside, and concentrates once more on the telly.

" _...because there isn't anyone. It's up to you. Save him."_

"I don't understand, Mary."

" _But I do think you're going to need a little bit of help with that, because you're not exactly good with people, so here are a few things you need to know about the man we both love. And more importantly, what you are going to need to do to save him."_

 _There's no point. Nothing can save me._ John feels a stray tear finally trickle along his cheek, quickly wiping it away. While he was usually the more emotional of the two while working cases with Sherlock, John hasn't really been one to openly weep in public; emotional outbursts have been few and far between. He had remained almost stoic at Sherlock's funeral, the only hint of grief being the suspicious brightness in his eyes; hell, the only time he had broken down had been in private at his friend's graveside. But now he finds that he is threatening to break down in front of Mrs. Hudson. He is nothing without Mary, he tells himself, and no amount of pleading will change that fact. In fact, his daughter is the only thing that is keeping him from eating a bullet.

" _The only way to save John is to make him save you."_

And suddenly John freezes. For a moment, he stares at the image of his murdered wife, pained smile on her face and the traces of tears in her blue eyes. It takes him a moment to register what she is asking of his former friend: _make him save you..._ Mentally he pieces together the clues: accepting his beating (from his _own hands_ ); his self proclaimed feelings of guilt regarding Mary's death; the thin thread of the typical Sherlock Holmes ego the man was still desperately clinging to... _Culverton Smith. Jesus Christ he's going after Culverton Smith._ _He's going to get a deathbed confession from him._ And suddenly, John leaps from his chair, eyes wide in horror. If Sherlock is aiming for a deathbed confession, that could only mean that he – no. That can't happen. He won't let it. He's already lost his friend, he simply can't lose him again.

"Mrs. Hudson, I need to go. Now."

Mrs. Hudson is no fool. She, too, knows Sherlock Holmes, loves him like her own son. She reaches for a set of keys and tosses them to John. "My car." Without a word, he clumsily grasps the keys and races down the stairs, praying that he isn't too late.

XXX

It's been three months since Sherrinford, and John Watson once again finds himself a permanant resident at 221B Baker Street.

At first, he had protested the idea. Being best friends with Sherlock Holmes is exhilerating, and John can't deny that he secretly craves the adrenalin rush. And yet, it is also extremely dangerous. No matter how much he loves Sherlock, he simply cannot put Rosie's life at risk. And then there are the logistics: the flat is crowded, even following the rebuild; there are only two rooms. Where would Rosie sleep? There are more dangerous chemicals then he would care to count that his daughter could find and injest. Not to mention the extra care involved in caring for a baby, and the exhaustion brought on by sleepless nights. But Sherlock had accepted the responsibility readily, his usual aloofness doing little to hide the love he feels for his goddaughter. The consulting detective's demeanor has changed drastically since that night in Sherrinford; emotions he had kept dormant have begun to resurface. It is understandable. John had witnessed Sherlock under the highest amount of mental and emotional duress, being forced to chose between killing his best friend or his brother. The image of Sherlock turning the gun against himself disturbs John to this day. If Eurus had not have injected him with the tranquilizer dart, the doctor would no doubt be mourning the loss of his best friend instead of moving back to his former flat.

As for the danger, John admits that even being associated with Sherlock Holmes would bring great risk to both himself and his daugher. Would Rosie be as safe in a seperate flat as she would in 221B? Or would it be wiser to move downstairs into 221C? He would still be in the same building and yet maintain a semblance of privacy. And yet, somehow, he finds himself drawn to his former flatmate, to the need to be close to his friend _just in case._ The close call in Sherrinford has reminded John of the stakes, and the possibility of losing Sherlock again is too much. His sudden possesiveness of his friend disturbs John slightly, but he immediately dismisses it as overprotectiveness. Considering the circumstances he has every right to be concerned. Besides, as brilliant as Sherlock is, the man _does_ tend to lack in the social skills department; he needs John to keep him grounded, and more likely than not, to keep him from getting punched in the face after an ill timed, tactless remark.

And so, against his better judgment, John agrees to move back into 221B, back home. The place looks the same as before, down to the outdated wallpaper and bullet riddled spray painted smiley face. There is still an unreasonable amount of clutter, and the ever present skul continues to rest upon the mantle. Mrs. Hudson once again drops in with homemade goodies and fresh brewed tea, always reminding them that she is their landlady and _not_ their housekeeper. The main differences are the made up couch in the lounge, where John sleeps, and the endless array of baby things lying around the space. The expermients (and subsequent explosions) have mercifully come to an end following little Rosie's arrival, the few chemicals John permitts being safely locked away in Sherlock's bedroom. Life is a delightful blend of chaos and tedium, with the added sweetness of baby milestones. Rosie's first steps, first birthday, first lisped words (dada, much to Sherlock's chagrin). The little girl, who has already become attached to Sherlock, soon worms her way even further into the consulting detective's heart. John can't pinpoint exactly when his friend became Rosie's official co-parent, but Sherlock accepts the role as naturally as if the child were his own flesh and blood. Perhaps it is when the little girl develops a dangerously high fever while John is at the surgery and Sherlock rushes her to A&E, for once not even trying to cover up his fear with typical Holmes snark. Or when he rattles on about the benefits of preparing natural baby food rather than the canned stuff at the market, all the while covered in strained peas as Rosie laughs in delight. Or perhaps it is when he walks in on Sherlock rocking his daughter to sleep, his thumb gently brushing at the child's soft, blonde hair. It is that image which actually made John's heart skip a beat momentarily, much to the doctor's surprise.

And then there is the moment Rosie calls Sherlock "papa". The detective is casually bouncing the baby on his knees as he argues with Lestrade about the amount of "four" cases he's been called to when Rosie clearly speaks, reaching layfully for one of Sherlock's dark curls with one chubby fist. The man pauses for a moment, that familiar look of uncertainty and utter disbelief on his face. And then, the tiniest of smiles, immediately smothered before Lestrade can accuse him of being a softie. It is there that John finally clues in to what his heart has been telling him for years.

 _Oh shit. I think I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes._

He quickly brushes the thought aside. Not that he is in denial; he's long past that stage of the game. Instead, he fears losing his best friend. Their friendship is an unconventional one, but it's comfortable, like a worn glove. He can't risk driving Sherlock away with a romantic relationship. And then there's Mary. If he were to be honest with himself, John Watson has loved Sherlock Holmes since the weeks leading up to his "suicide", had perhaps been subconsciously so even following his marriage. But he will never downplay how he had felt, still feels, for Mary. He always will love his late wife; she had been his comfort during his darkest moments, had given him the precious gift of fatherhood. His grief following her death had been genuine, as had been his intense (and, admittedly, irrational) rage at Sherlock when he had believed him to be responsible. It would seem almost sacrilege to find love again when Mary had been buried not quite a year. And so he ignores it, opting instead to focus on what he has instead of what he doesn't.

XXX

It's been a year since John and Rosie have settled into 221B, and the nightmares are beginning to haunt him.

At first it is manageable. Once in a while he wakes up in a cold sweat, but a cup of tea and a peek into Rosie's room are usually enough to calm him and he's back in bed in no time. If Sherlock is aware of them (and, no doubt, he _is,_ he's Sherlock Bloody Holmes, after all), he chooses to ignore the situation and leaves his friend be. He isn't too concerned about the dreams, even if they are unnerving at the best of times and downright horrible at the worst. It's to be expected, after all. Within the span of four years he'd nearly lost his best friend countless times, had buried his wife, and had almost died at the hands of said best friend's psychotic long lost sister. If anything, John has wondered how come the nightmares have not escalated in frequency and intensity.

But now, John is sitting bolt upright in bed, heart racing mildly, cheeks damp with sweat. He clutches at the brightly coloured afghan with unsteady hands and waits for his breathing to regulate. He's pretty sure he'd just screamed, and holds his breath as he waits for his daughter's wails from her room. But, mercifully, the child remains asleep, and John carefully heads to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Mechanically he fills the kettle and rummages through the cupboards for tea bags. He makes sure to grab two mugs, knowing full well that the screams which had failed to wake up his daughter most certainly would have aroused Sherlock from dream land. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps echo through the flat, and the overhead light switches on.

"For God's sake, John, next time you have a nightmare, do try to control the volume."

"I'll make sure to remember that," John grumbles. The kettle begins to whistle and John drops a tea bag in each mug before adding the boiling water. Sherlock accepts his drink with a curt nod of thanks and settles himself at the table. For a moment the two sit in silence. Juding by the way Sherlock's eyes dart at him, John can tell that the man is deducing the intensity (or, knowing him, the damn content) of his nightmare. As if his blooding screaming had not been enough of a giveaway. He tells him so with an exhasperated sigh.

"I know." Sherlock's reply is soft, and John thinks he sees the slight flush of colour on his cheeks. He's embarrassed at being caught studying his friend. Their silence is awkward, a heaviness lingering which John hasn't felt since the days following Mary's death. John looks down at his mug, notices the tremor in his hand and closes his eyes. It's a bad idea. Though he is already forgetting the majority of his dream, a few fragments linger. Images of his daughter sitting in her cot, crying hysterically, of Mary in her wedding gown, smiling at him as blood oozes from a bullet wound in the chest; of the cold and darkness beneath the well, his water logged lungs burning while a desperate Sherlock tries in vain to free him from his prison. But, as horrifying as these images are, it is the one which had caused John to wake up in terror which refuses to let go. The one where the tranqulizer dart is always just a few seconds too late...

 _Ten, nine..._

 _John stands before his friend, frozen in terror. He wants to run over, to grab the gun from him before he pulls the trigger, but can't. He opens his mouth to yell at him, can actually feel himself screaming, but there is only silence. It isn't until Sherlock pulls the trigger and drops to the ground when he can finally hear: the splatter of blood and cerebral tissue on the wall; the choked sob from Mycroft; the agonizing cry, unlike that of a wounded animal, coming from beneath his throat..._

The tremor increases, and John finds himself shaking. He can feel a sob forming from beneath his throat and he covers his mouth with his hand in a vain attempt to muffle it. He rarely breaks down before Sherlock. In fact, the only time he has ever done so happened in this very flat, a few days following Mary's death. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, trying to compose himself. But Sherlock slowly rises from his chair _,_ as he had done that horrible night, and gently pulls him into a hug. Only this time, John finds himsel wrapping his arms around him, burying his face into his chest, breathing in his scent. Sherlock lets him cry, attempting rather poorly to rub soothing circles along his back. The touch is awkward as hell, and yet comforting. He cries messily into his chest for several minutes, clutching his pajama top like a lifeline while Sherlock holds him until at last the sobs begin to ease. When at last he can speak, he reluctanly pulls from the hug and wipes his tear stained face with the back of his hand.

"You died."

Sherlock looks down at his friend, nods briefly but with a look of slight confustion on his face. "I take it you're sharing with me the gory details of your dream."

"Shut up." But there's no malice behind the words, only exhaustion. Sherlock sighs inwardly. It's always his death which seems to upset John the most in his nightmares. Why would it not be that of Mary, or little Rosie? Surely the loss of a friend would not be as agonizing as the loss of a loved one...

 _Oh._

John loves him. The thought actually terrifies Sherlock. That anyone other than his parents, and possibly Mycroft, could actually love him. How could he have possibly failed to notice? He knows that he is seriously lacking in the social skills department, his awkard relationship with Molly Hooper being a prime example. For all Sherlock knows, he's getting it all wrong. He can tell you your marital status, the number of pets you have, what you ate for lunch that afternoon; but love... it's unfamiliar territory. He's loved John practically since they first met; had been jealous when he'd gotten married, even more so when he figured out Mary was pregnant. He'd initially chalked it up to his being the third wheel and his desire to have John to himself _as a_ friend. Had he secretly been posessive of him for reasons other than platonic? Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat momentarily and breathes in slightly to steady its rhythm.

 _My god, I think I may be in love with John Watson._

John has either failed to notice, or ignored the sudden change of body language. Instead he opens up, tells of how he'd watched him blow his brains out in front of him. To his embarrassment, he finds himself tearing up again, and immediately composes himself. "I'm sorry," he says, feeling the warmth of the blush. "I know you have better things to -"

To John's surprise, Sherlock silences him. Not with a tactless remark or gesture. But with a kiss. It's hesitant at first, awkward, and John doesn't quite know how to react. But moments later his own hands brush against Sherlock's cheekbones, gently tangle within his dark curls. It's all the detective needs; he deepens the kiss, leaving John breathless despite its uncertainty. After a moment Sherlock pulls away, looking almost regretful.

"John, I'm sorry. I don't know -"

"Please don't. Don't tell me you don't know what you were thinking, that this was a mistake. Because if you say that, I swear to God..."

"I take it, then, that the feeling is mutual?"

John rolls his eyes, the trace of a smile curling from his lips. "Of course the feeling is mutual, you sod. Why do you think I didn't push you back?"

For a monent, Sherlock backs away in surprise. How could John possibly love him after all the pain he has put him through? Faking his death, failing to protect Mary. Not to mention his annoying idiosyncracies and harsh temperment. But he can't stop himself from smiling slightly, choosing, for once, to ignore the uncertainty. He smiles slightly and draws John closer, resting his chin upon the top of the man's sandy locks. They stay that way until the whimpers from the spare bedroom alert them that Rosie is awake for the day. As John bends to scoop the little girl from her cot, he notices from the corner of his eye Sherlock's sillhouette in the shadows. He is standing with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his dressing gown, looking slightly uncomfortable. Planting a gentle kiss on Rosie's downey head, John walks over and gently hands the baby over. "I think someone wants to say good morning," he murmurs softly.

Nodding, Sherlock carefully accepts the bundle and begins to bounce Rosie on his shoulder. The child gurgles in delight, and the detective smiles before suddenly grimacing in disgust. "I find it hard to believe, Rosamund, that children as small as yourself can produce such horrific byproducts."

John laughs. "I do believe it's your turn, papa. I seem to recall being on nappy duty for a while." He notices Sherlock pause for a moment, uncertain, before nodding in agreement. It's the first time John has referred to Sherlock as Rosie's second father; it doesn't take a brilliant consulting detective to deduce that the younger man has swelled with pride. As he watches Sherlock tend to his daughter, John feels his heart well with happiness, when just hours earlier it had been dark with despair. He's standing before the man he loves, holding his little girl; his family. His _home._

That night, he moves from the couch in the lounge to Sherlock's room.

There are no more nightmares.


End file.
